


Revolutionary Codes of Conduct (aka, Rules Don't Apply When You're a Rebel)

by missmungoe



Category: One Piece
Genre: F/M, Not-So-Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-29 21:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12639414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmungoe/pseuds/missmungoe
Summary: It was only a matter of time before everyone found out.





	Revolutionary Codes of Conduct (aka, Rules Don't Apply When You're a Rebel)

**Author's Note:**

> Most of my fics with these two cover the getting-together bit, but I also have a heart for (secret) established relationships.
> 
> Of course, nothing is ever secret for long in an organisation like this.

Given the circumstances, they’ve done a fairly good job of hiding it.

She pats herself on the back for that — she hasn’t let it interfere with either of their jobs, and they’ve maintained a professional working relationship without too many drastic adjustments. They don’t act differently around each other, and most of their colleagues won’t even have noticed there’s been a shift. They haven’t been as obvious as some, necking in hallways and showing up late to meetings, clothes partially rearranged and hickeys on display. This isn’t a romantic office cliche.

Well, okay, it’s a _little_ bit cliche, but not in the traditional will they/won’t they, colleagues-have-a-secret-betting-pool-going kind of cliche, although considering it now, Koala thinks that a secret betting pool might have been preferable to the not-at-all subtle grins staring at her from across the conference room. They’re all slugging through a meeting no one is actually paying attention to, and any other night their inattention might have been blamed on the fact that they’ve all been dragged out of bed at 4am, but as things stand, it’s not the morbidly early hour that’s stealing everyone’s focus.

See, when you’re an illegal and Government-hunted organisation, emergency drills are a _thing_.

Dragon is speaking, words like  _response time_  and  _tactical efficiency_  reaching her despite her own lack of focus, even tones yielding no amusement, although Koala could swear the corner of that severe mouth looks on the verge of jutting upwards.

Chin lifted with stubborn dignity, she promptly ignores it — and all the other grins that aren’t even trying to be anything else but entirely shameless, and tries instead to focus on what is being said. This isn’t the first evacuation drill that’s seen her dragged out of bed in her sleepwear, and she’s not even the most indecently dressed (Iva-chan, true to form, can safely lay claim to that honour), although it’s not really a mystery just why she’s the one attracting all the eyes in the room.

It’s not the oversized shirt that’s the telling detail — it’s the fact that the owner of said shirt has declared himself so, and loudly, by showing up without one.

“I’ll kill you,” she murmurs under her breath as the meeting drags on. The tiles are freezing under her bare feet, and shifting from side to side is only making her restless, and eager to get back to bed, although she’s almost reluctant to even consider the thought, as though the smiles reaching towards her can tell what she’s thinking, and why.

“I wasn’t the one who couldn’t find my shirt,” Sabo murmurs back, grin quick, but not too quick to catch, or to read for what it is. Even shirtless, he doesn’t seem to be having any of her troubles, but then the devil fruit gives him an unusually high body temperature. Koala stamps out the impulse to step closer; even if it’s a little late to try keeping up appearances, it’s not like she needs to flaunt it more than they already have.

Seeming to have picked up on her dilemma, Sabo shifts his weight, the gesture barely noticeable, but it puts him an inch closer, and her gratitude momentarily overrules her embarrassment.

“It could be worse,” he says then, keeping his voice down, but seeming cheerfully undaunted by the fact that he’s put on pants and nothing else.

Still the centre of attention, Koala pretends her voice doesn’t sound half-hysteric when she hisses, “ _How_?”

The smile he flashes her makes her almost feel like forgiving him, but then the words are out of his mouth, and forgiveness is the last thing on her mind, as he quips softly, “I could be wearing  _your_ shirt and nothing else.”

She punches him in the shoulder so hard he bites off a laughing oath — then catches Dragon’s arched brow from across the room, although there’s barely a hitch in the proceedings, and the meeting crawls by with near-unbearable sluggishness, and in a way that feels almost like punishment. Well-deserved, probably; their collective response time could be better.

Dragon moves on to talking about evacuation plans, stressing the importance of sleeping arrangements and keeping track of all the souls under their roof, and she’s not beyond believing that there’s a deliberate pause after the words  _sleeping arrangements_ , and the dry sweep of his gaze in their direction.

But if Dragon is managing some measure of subtlety regarding their own complete lack thereof, the same can’t be said for the rest of their colleagues, and it’s with her shoulders sinking under Sabo’s shirt and a room full of knowing grins that Koala concedes that the cat is thoroughly and irrevocably out of the bag.

Then again, maybe it won’t be the worst thing. It’s not like it should come as a complete shock, and they’re not the only couple among their colleagues. It was inevitable that they’d find out at some point, and even if she would have preferred things to have gone a little differently, a little teasing would have been expected, even if they’d revealed it in their own time, and on their own terms.

“I’d look good in your shirt,” Sabo says then, and despite herself — despite the whole, emotionally jarring night, despite their audience and her state of partial undress — Koala smiles.

And then gives him a shove for good measure.

 

—

 

The news don’t stir up as much talk as she’d expected, and there’s some relief in that. Of course, some probably already had their suspicions, although she’s not about to start pulling on that fraying thread, to see what it might unravel. She’s never let her private affairs affect her work, and she’s not about to start — or to doubt her past actions, and whether they’d been as subtle as they’d thought.

“Eyes up front!”

Her voice rings out across the training grounds, as clear as the order, although it’s half-heartedly followed by most of the recruits lined up in front of her. Hack would have commanded more authority, Koala knows, but suffocates the small annoyance before it has the chance to seize her fully. It’s always like this with new recruits, and she doesn’t really blame them — it’s one thing to learn fishman karate from an actual fishman, and quite another to be told to take orders from a human, and a girl at that, and her presence usually ruffles a few feathers at first. It always sorts itself out, although some recruits take a little longer to come around than others, but she’s used to that initial reluctance; the immediate doubt that greets her introductory speech, and the wary, half-disbelieving glances.

It was easier with Hack present to vouch for her, but she’s not an assistant instructor anymore, and they’ll have to take her word for it, sooner or later. Hopefully, it won’t take more than the first lesson, although it’s not going as well as she would have liked.

The rookies are dragging their feet. Since it’s their introductory lesson, most are already tired, some a little overwhelmed, and others stubbornly determined to pay attention in spite of being both. Altogether, it’s a good mix, but as a full-fledged instructor she needs to be able to handle all sorts.

She’s moving through the lines, inspecting their stances and nudging arms and legs into correct positions, offering small remarks of encouragement, when she catches the tail-end of a surreptitious murmur—

“—thought she was better than that, you know? She made such a good first impression, the day we joined up.”

Koala doesn’t pause in her step, or in her instructions, even as the words find her, creeping past her concentration, but she’s quick to push the initial spark of nervousness away. She’s been a little on edge, ever since that night with the emergency drill. But whoever had spoken, they hadn’t mentioned her by name, and it’s a little conceited, immediately suspecting that they’re talking about her. She’s not prone to arrogance, so the fact that that’s where her mind goes catches her a little off guard.

But then — “I’m not surprised,” someone else speaks up, still keeping their voice low, but Koala still hears the words, the sharp, mocking edges to them. “Organisation as big as this, there’s always someone trying to sleep their way to the top.”

“I heard she just got promoted, too,” comes another voice, and it’s not conceit now but a rapidly dawning realisation, but it’s not anger it sparks, or that leaves her hands suddenly shaking.

“Right?” the one who’d first spoken scoffs. “Seems pretty timely, if you ask me. And I thought a real fishman would be teaching us. She doesn’t even look like she could throw a convincing punch.”

“Well, if you’re sleeping with the Chief of Staff, you get all the perks that come with it.”

“He’s got perks, alright,” someone else purrs. “I bet there’s a reason he’s the Chief of  _Staff_.”

A muffled snort. “Oh my god.”

“What? Have you  _seen_  him? I don’t blame her for climbing that career ladder. I’d sleep with him even without the incentive of a promotion.”

“Of course  _you_  would.”

“Yeah, I would. And I’d own up to it, too. She was  _so_  embarrassed at being caught, so you know there’s got to be a reason she wanted it kept under wraps.”

“He’s probably just a stepping stone to the real thing. Dragon-san was the one who promoted her, right? Maybe she’s already climbed her way to the top, if you know what I mean.” A soft whistle. “And what a climb that is. Wouldn’t mind that ladder, either.”

“Dude. Would you keep it in your pants?”

“It would explain why she was so embarrassed, though. Maybe she didn’t like being caught dividing her attentions. You know she was in nothing but his shirt?”

“So much for dignity and self-worth,” a third voice interjects, to a murmur of agreement. “There aren’t that many women in this organisation. You’d think she’d set a better example.”

She’s not breathing. She’s not even thinking — it’s too much just listening to what they’re saying, and she’s forgotten what she’s supposed to be doing.

She feels hot — over-warm, like she’s running a fever, so much that she almost feels dizzy, and there’s a persistent ringing in her ears, drowning out everything else around her, the recruits and her lesson and even her own thoughts. And on its heels is a cold, creeping  _shame_  that she hasn’t felt in years; so long that she doesn’t even recognise the feeling at first.

“Koala-san?”

The recruit in front of her is looking at her curiously, and the thought strikes Koala that he’s heard everything that’s been said — that they all have, and she  _feels_ their gazes on her now, their combined weight almost oppressive, dragging her limbs down, like shackles around her wrists, and she hates that feeling, she  _hates_ it —

“Class dismissed,” she says, before she can even stop to think, and hears how hoarse her voice sounds, but she doesn’t stick around to watch their reactions as she turns to stride across the training grounds towards the compound.

She hears their surprised murmurs following her retreat, seeming to chase her off, but it’s like cotton in her ears, in her throat, and she has to get away; she doesn’t care that she’s making a scene. She needs a moment to gather herself, somewhere she isn’t being watched and judged, weighed and measured, and it’s — it’s like being on display in an auction house, all her secrets bared and everyone assessing her merits, and her throat is closing up as she pushes through the doors blindly, not seeing the familiar corridors, just old, phantom shadows and she’s worth more than this, she’s worth more than this, _she’s worth_  —

The tears are pressing against her eyes before she’s rounded the corner, and she doesn’t have time to stop and check if her quarters are empty before she’s barged inside, slamming the door behind her just as the sob shoves past her clenched teeth, and she’s not quick enough to muffle it before it bounces off the quiet privacy of her room.

Then — “Koala?”

Horror surges inside her, and she’s raised her eyes in time to see Sabo sit up on her bunk. The bedding looks about as rumpled as he does. He’s thrown his coat across the chair beside her desk, and his boots are in a heap, his cravat tugged loose around his neck and his curls in an endearing chaos, stray strands clinging to those absurdly long lashes where he’s blinking his eyes at her.

He’d been taking a nap, she realises with a breath, before another realisation finds her, seizing her before she can take another — he’d been taking a nap in  _her_  room, comfortable with the small infringement on her privacy; the intimate kind of comfort that blurs the lines of  _yours_  and  _mine_ , although she doesn’t know why she’s surprised.

A curl of tenderness finds her, before the shame does — a different kind of shame now, that she’d let herself be swayed so easily, and by _gossip_  of all things.

Sabo has risen from the bunk, moving towards where she’s standing, her legs locked, and she realises belatedly that she’s still crying, but it’s too late to wipe her tears, and she sees from the frown tugging his brows together that there’s an explanation due.

Stubborn, she wipes at her eyes anyway, but all the stubbornness in the world couldn’t have made her smile convincing when she tries for one. “It’s nothing.”

As expected, that only makes his frown deepen. “The hell it’s nothing,” he says, but there’s no bite to the words, just a matter-of-fact insistence that tells her plainly she’s not shrugging this off that easily.

When she makes to wipe her eyes again, he tugs her fingers away. She tires another time, and he repeats the motion, and the irritated huff that leaves her only earns her a look, as though to say  _oh, you want to fight?_

She almost feels like taking him up on the offer, if only to blow off some steam, and because frankly, throwing punches makes her feel better than crying, but she doesn’t say anything, feeling suddenly, desperately  _tired._

Fingers curled around her wrists, the tender press of his thumbs against her pulse conveys understanding, even before Sabo asks, expression suddenly grave, “Is this about the other night?”

She thinks she might have dug her heels in, if this had happened at an earlier point in their relationship, but it’s been a while since they stopped being  _partners_  in the strictly professional sense, and pretending that she’s okay when he can clearly tell she isn’t suddenly seems like a ridiculous response.

The sigh that leaves her heralds surrender, and, “The new recruits were talking,” Koala admits at length, gaze fixed on their hands, her own fingers slack within their gloves, and his still curved around her wrists. His own gloves are in the heap on the floor with his shoes. “About — us,” she says, stumbling a bit over the word, and tries not to wince at how  _pathetic_ that admission sounds. Like she can’t stand a little gossip.

She’s surprised when the corner of his mouth quirks. “Yeah,” Sabo says. “Someone tried to high-five me in the mess hall earlier.” The grin he flashes her is suddenly bright with self-satisfaction. “I tossed him over a table.”

The laugh that blurts out of her takes her by surprise, although she wonders why it should. “You’re too reckless, you know that?”

He shrugs, unapologetic. “No one’s tried to high-five me after that,” he tells her simply. Then, his expression softening a bit, “What were they saying?” he asks.

There’s no teasing lilt to his voice now, to suggest that her reaction was unwarranted, and Koala finds a small smile, although it sits awkwardly on her mouth, even as she says, “Some heavily suggestive comments about why you’re Chief of Staff.”

Sabo blinks, brows knitting with bemusement, before realisation strikes, and he snorts — and the _laugh_ that follows has that tight knot in her chest unfurling, even as she feels her cheeks heating, quite despite herself.

“It’s not that funny,” she tells him, and tries to pinch him, but he’s too busy laughing to even notice the attempt. She huffs a laugh. “ _Seriously_ , Sabo-kun. Are you five years old?”

The look he gives her is surprisingly serious. “No. I’m Chief of  _Staff_.”

Mouth pressed together and her expression blank, “I already regret telling you,” she says.

She gets a grin for that. “You should. I’m never going to let this go. Just wait until I tell Hack.”

“How have you not heard that one before?” she asks. “It’s pretty obvious.”

“Oh yeah? Thought about it a lot, have you?”

That gleam in his eyes promises endless teasing, and he looks altogether far too amused, Koala thinks. She shakes her head, but — she feels a bit better. She’s not sure why she’s surprised by that, either.

The fingers curled around her wrists tighten their grip, and when she looks up it’s to find his grin having eased into something that hints at a frown. His skin is warm, and the rub of his thumb over her pulse is a little distracting. “What else did they say?”

The way he asks it tells her he knows it’s about more than just questionably creative innuendo. And she thinks she might have tried to make light of it, or to steer the conversation back to that, but the way he’s looking at her prompts her to say it, despite the stubbornly persisting shame — all of it, from the blatant accusations of sleeping her way to a promotion, to the implied lack of self-respect at being caught doing so, and in such a way as she had been, that night she’d showed up in nothing but his shirt.

“It wasn’t my most dignified moment,” she murmurs, that one comment having stuck, as though glued to her memory.  _So much for dignity and self-worth._

Looking up to meet his eyes, it’s to find his earlier amusement wiped off, leaving his features harder, and emphasising the lines at the corners of his mouth.

And — it’s that darkly pensive expression that sometimes claims him, Koala sees; the one that feels all  _wrong_ , because the Sabo she knows is quick-stoked temper and rash decisions and she doesn’t like this calmer, darker thing, doesn’t want it on his face, the feeling so fierce she’s suddenly tempted to blurt another quip about his supposed title as  _Chief of Staff_ , if only to bring back that insufferable smile.

“Hey,” she says then, twisting her hands around, gloved fingertips sketching the veins in his wrists, until she’s laced her fingers with his. She tilts her head, seeking his eyes. “You could make me feel better?”

That makes him smile, the languid stretch of it along his mouth easing away the tightness at the corners. “Yeah?”

The look she gives him is fondly patient. “For your sake, whatever you’re about to suggest, it better not include the word ‘staff’.”

“But I’m the  _chief_.”

A sigh, full of fondness. “Sabo-kun—”

He claims her protest with a kiss, ducking his head to catch her mouth, the hands slipped from hers reaching for the rest of her with an ease that always catches her a little off guard — ever since the first time he did it, as though it hadn’t required so much as a second thought; as though their change in relationship hadn’t changed  _her_ , before or after. Not to him, at least.

Her surprise is quick to yield to laughter when he pulls her close, her mirth bubbling up under his grin, wide and kissed against her own with exaggerated gusto, although the curl of his fingers around the back of her neck is a far more tender thing. She cards her hands through his curls, the cheerful mess of them, and quite forgets the disastrous first lesson and the gossipy recruits, and that there’s anything at all to be ashamed of, now or any other time. And when he cheekily murmurs his intention of proving himself worthy of both aspects of his rank, she’s too busy gasping her laughter to tell him she’s never once doubted his proficiency as either.

 

—

 

The gossip dies down, as all things do, the novelty worn off and the subject exhausted beyond its initial intrigue. Even busybodies grow bored, and turn their attentions elsewhere, and there’s more than enough rumours to go around, in an organisations like theirs.

They still maintain a professional relationship while they work, and what they do behind closed doors remains there. A few weeks of murmurs trailing in her wake and it’s already old news, although she still feels it sometimes, the underlying suggestion in their eyes when they look at her, still assessing her worth.

She doubles down on her teaching, determined not to let their doubts get to her, or to become her own. Let her actions speak for themselves, like her skill and her professionalism. If they still feel like doubting why she got to where she is after that, it’s their own problem. She has no doubt — she never did.

Sabo doesn’t interfere, and she’s thankful, but not at all surprised. Another partner might have been overbearing, or explicitly affectionate, seeking to counteract the rumours of being just a stepping stone to a higher rank, but he doesn’t — wouldn’t seek to fight her battles for her, even if it’s not technically a battle to be  _fought_ , but the show of respect is a welcome one.

(he still steals kisses after staff meetings when there’s no one to see, and has taken to suggesting they have  _staff meetings_ of their own, which has earned him more than a few bruising pinches, although hasn’t dissuaded him from suggesting it, and often)

And things go back to normal, or whatever is considered ‘normal’ in their line of work, with border skirmishes thwarted in time for lunch and a small kingdom toppled by dinner, a kiss stolen in passing the only thing they manage between them on a busy day, before an exhausted sleep finds them both, tired limbs entangled and the covers kicked off, and no mind to even remember whose bunk they’re in.

And at least with that, they don’t have to care about appearances anymore, and there’s something nice about not having to worry about it.

The blaring alarm jerks her awake, realisation finding her before she’s even fully out of sleep, and she feels the groan muffled against the bare skin of her neck, the soft reverberation rumbling through the chest pressed up against her back.

The arm around her waist grips her tighter, and the bare leg thrown over her hip echoes the gesture.

“Sabo,” Koala says, already moving, nudging him to follow. He’s heavy, and shamelessly using it to his advantage. “Come on.”

“No,” comes the petulant grumble, his voice guttural with sleep. His arm doesn’t relinquish its grip around her waist. “We just had one of these a few weeks ago. The enemy can have me if they’ll let me sleep.”

“ _Sabo_.”

She gets another grumble, and when she pushes at his arm he just tightens his grip again, although it doesn’t take much effort to pry herself loose of him — she is, as he likes to remind her, freakishly strong — and to hunt down her pyjamas.

Rising from the bunk, she feels his fingers reaching for her hip, the trail of them over her ass preceding a cheeky smile, and in retaliation she whacks him with the pillow, before tossing it across the room. “Get up or I’ll pick you up and carry you,” she says. “And I don’t care that you’re naked. Just try me.”

A surrendering sigh rises from the bedding, but he takes his time following suit, still grumbling under his breath, and by the time she’s dressed, Sabo has managed to sit up, bed-hair a cheerful fact and seeming entirely unperturbed by the alarms still shrieking overhead. Even placing her hands on her hips doesn’t inspire a sense of urgency, and when he finally rolls off the bunk, hands propped on his own hips, still stark naked and blatantly trying to prompt a reaction, Koala just arches a brow.

“What?” he asks. “You said to try you.” He gestures to himself. “This is me trying.”

“Could you be taking this _less_ seriously?” she asks, ignoring the heat in her cheeks, and finds his answer in the grin that stretches along his lips, before he lets his hands drop as he makes to grab his pants to pull them on.

He’s still taking his sweet time, and she’s brimming with impatience — she  _hates_ being late — when he turns to nudge her towards the door. He’s only wearing one boot, and still hasn’t pulled on his shirt. “Go,” he tells her, kissing the top of her head when she makes to voice a protest. “I’m right behind you.”

She sighs, but she’s too tired to put up a fight about it. “Fine,” she says, pointing a finger in warning, which earns her a far too innocent look. “But if you’re late, I’m not coming to your defence. You’re on your own if Dragon-san decides to use you to set an example for the rookies. You’ll clean those toilets by yourself.”

Unconcerned by the threat, Sabo waves her off. He’s rummaging around for his other boot. “Sure, sure.”

“I mean it, Sabo.”

“Toilets, yeah. Sounds terrible.” He tosses a grin over his shoulder. “If you don’t hurry, he’ll include you in that example.”

Her glare doesn’t have much of an effect, and she turns on her heel with a huff, stalking out of their room, a mutter slipped under her breath, but her irritation is forgotten a moment later, stepping out into the corridor.

With the tumult of movement and people, it doesn’t take her long to come awake fully, and to fall into familiar routines. She knows what to do, and where to go; takes command of their section, counting heads, and directing the new recruits where they need to go, the mantle of command sitting easy on her shoulders, even dressed in her pyjamas — but  _hers_ , this time, the cheerful koala print seeming to dare anyone to offer so much as a lingering glance.

The drill goes smoothly, although she doesn’t see Sabo anywhere as she makes for the rallying point, bleary-eyed rookies and older veterans shuffling together into semi-formation, some looking half-asleep on their feet and others not even bothering with pretence, snoring where they stand, draped across whatever available surface or fixture would allow them a moment’s shuteye.

Dragon is at the head of the crowd, looking like he’s been awake for hours, although Koala doesn’t dismiss the possibility.

A furtive glance over her shoulder seeks a familiar head of blond hair, and it doesn’t take her long to find him, pushing through the crowd with that cheerful authority that comes so easily, and there’s a soft reprimand on her tongue that dies the second she catches sight of him.

To say the shirt is  _straining_  would be the understatement of the age, the soft pink fabric stretched so tightly across his broad back and shoulders the seams look ready to pop, and all she can do is gape as he struts towards her, before coming to a stop at her side.

“Sorry I’m late,” he chirps, slipping her a grin. “I couldn’t find my shirt.”

It’s  _obscenely_  tight — andshort, the frilly hem cut off just below his ribcage, and the seam down the front having surrendered completely, leaving his chest partially exposed.

She doesn’t know if she wants to laugh or if it’s something else that’s about to escape her, brimming in her throat like a sob, but the stunned silence around her seems to be in agreement. If anyone was on the verge of falling asleep, they’re wide awake now, although no one is looking at Dragon.

For his part, Sabo appears oblivious to the stares, as unfazed by the attention as he is by the fabric straining across his arms and chest, and the lump in her throat swells suddenly, recognising the gesture for what it is.

Dragon slides an enduring look between them, but doesn’t seem inclined to let it derail his report, as he proceeds to give it, to a crowd mostly busy staring at his second-in-command.

Halfway through the report, Sabo slips her a grin. “Told you I’d look good in it,” he murmurs, and it takes effort to suffocate the laughing sob that still threatens at the back of her throat.

“You’re an idiot,” Koala tells him softly, and finds his grin only widening.

“I hope you’re not just now realising that?”

The words are on the tip of her tongue then —  _I love you_ , the sudden urge to blurt them so startling it steals her breath, although when they settle in her chest she realises once again that she’s not surprised, not really.

But even as she accepts them, thinks them, feels the full, uncompromising weight of them, she doesn’t speak them. Instead she tucks them away for another time, when they don’t have an audience watching, always assessing. And she doesn’t care what they think, or what they think they know about her — about them. What she cares about is what it says, the gesture a declaration, without words and without pretence, but it’s not a possessive declaration of ownership. If anything, he’s declared himself hers.

“So, what do you think?” Sabo asks her then, still keeping his voice down. On the other end of the room, Dragon is still talking.

And she looks at him, standing there in her too-tight shirt, entirely undeterred by the undignified display and wearing that stupidly _proud_ grin, looking utterly, shamelessly pleased with himself, and it takes conscious effort not to smile too much.

“I think,” Koala says, and there are the words again —  _I love you,_  seeming to cling to her tongue, the roof of her mouth, filling her chest and her lungs and her throat. But even if she doesn’t say them out loud, he’s grinning down at her like he can hear them still, and it’s with a soft, laughing huff that she takes a deliberate step closer, and says, with a sigh that holds far too much affection —

“I’m glad you put on pants, at least.”

**Author's Note:**

> I love the idea of these big, shady organisations and illegal groups having these...incredibly mundane regulations like staff meetings, mandatory seminars and emergency drills. I live for it.


End file.
